


Kings and Queens

by stylesharrys



Category: Tom Holland (Actor) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Graphic Description, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Mob Boss Tom Holland, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28489095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stylesharrys/pseuds/stylesharrys
Summary: "It's full disclosure that I tell you the owner of this building isn't exactly considered a model citizen. He is known for conducting a lot of his business here," she begins, “I mean, in the lower levels of the building. Many of his associates also occupy some of the complexes that are a few floors above us.”Y/N furrows her brows, tilting her head. "What kind of business? Who is he?"She wonders why that would be such a big deal, how that could even affect any of the tenants of this place. Many landlords conduct business in the confinements of their apartment buildings, especially ones to this size.  Jenna swallows the lump in her throat."Tom Holland."orA new home and a new start, one free of conflict and trouble… or so she thought.
Relationships: Harrison Osterfield/Original Female Character(s), Tom Holland (Actor)/Reader, Tom Holland (Actor)/You, Tom Holland/Reader, Tom Holland/You
Kudos: 17





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is the new and improved rendition of Kings and Queens, where I am rewriting previous chapters before releasing new ones! Each chapter will have warnings listed for any triggers that may occur in any part. I hope you enjoy the updated series! :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new home and a new start, one free of conflict and trouble… or so she thought.

There’s a hint of hesitancy in the way Rachel stands beside her daughter. Y/N can feel the odd vibes rolling off her mother in electrifying waves, but she doesn’t say anything. This is expected, she has to remember. No loving mother deals well with the idea of their eldest moving out. Still, Y/N supposes Rachel would have got her emotions under control by now. This is the ninth viewing this month. 

The forty-two-year-old’s thumbs toy with the handles of the purse she holds in front of her, bottom lip worried between her teeth. Y/N clears her throat, nudging her mother in the arm with her elbow softly. “Don’t know what you’re so worried about,” she breathes, “I bet this one will be a complete flop, too.” 

Rachel lets out a heavy sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Sorry, love. It’s just this one is the furthest from home.” She looks to Y/N, worry lines between her brows and sketched across her forehead. 

Y/N scrunches her face up. “It’s only a bloody hour. Not like I’m half-way across the world.” 

The door they stand before opens, cutting Rachel’s scold off before it can slice past her lips. A tall woman stands before them, dressed in the classic estate agent attire they’ve been seeing all month. Crisp white blouse tucked into a black pencil shirt, kitten heels and a short black blazer that cuffs below the elbows. Lovely. 

She holds a clipboard to her chest, eyeing the two viewers with a seemingly nervous smile. She doesn’t look that young, Y/N reckons in her mid-thirties. “You must be Miss Wyatt. I’m Jenna Morley, I’m filling in for your estate agent, Ethan, as you’re aware. Please, come in.” 

Y/N steps inside first, shoulders rolling from the light chill that swarms her, and she’s thankful for the oversized cardigan beneath her jacket. It’s big, she takes it all in. 

The walls are all freshly painted white, floors still a little tattered from the previous owners but they don’t look bad. A few scratches give it a little character. Jenna shuts the door behind Rachel, scurrying in those godforsaken kitten heels to stand in front of them. 

Her cheeks are a little pink, looks a bit on edge if Y/N is behind honest and she isn’t entirely sure why. She’s sure Ethan had told her that Jenna had been working for the company for years. She shouldn’t be this nervous about showing a flat in London. 

Jenna clears her throat, nails tapping on the back of the clipboard. “So, Ethan had told me you wanted something spacious for a single person living here, also mentioned your love for art. You’re an artist, I take it?” She makes conversation, trying not to rock on the balls of her feet. 

Y/N smiles through pinched lips, shaking her head. She doesn’t really want to talk about herself, if she’s honest. She just wants to look at this place and hopefully put a deposit down by the end of the day if she likes what she sees. “I just paint in my free time. Just a hobby.” 

Jenna nods at the simple answer, gets the hint that Y/N isn’t in the mood for small talk, and clears her throat again. 

“Well, this property is two bedrooms, two bathrooms. The first room to your left is the guest bedroom, small walk-in closet.” Y/N peers her nose inside, reckons it’s a decent enough size for when her sister will no doubt be frequenting it. Rachel steps inside to get a look at the closet, eyes up the tall windows that open wide enough to step out onto the balcony. 

Jenna points to the door across from the bedroom, just a few feet, the width of the hall. “You’ve got room for storage here, you know, coats and shoes and stuff.” Jenna switches on the light and pushes the door open, allows Y/N to take a peek and smiles warmly at Rachel. 

“We saw that there’s a laundry room within the building?” Rachel asks, rolling her purse up to sit on her shoulder and unbuttoning her coat. 

Jenna nods, heels clicking across the floor as she moves. “Yes, the elevator takes you straight down to the basement level where laundry services are available. Of course, if you wanted your own washing machine and dryer up here, you definitely could.” She explains in a breezy tone and Y/N reckons she’s found her footing again. 

She leads the pair into the kitchen, open planned to the dining area and living room. It’s big, spacious, and as Y/N looks through the tall windows that occupy most walls, she notices how the balcony surrounds the entire left side of the apartment. She has to fight the need to bulge her eyes and drop her jaw. 

Her heart sinks. There’s no way this can even be a possibility for her. She might as well walk out now, she doesn’t want to wait around for Jenna to break the inevitable news of how expensive this place is. The fact that Rachel is yet to say a word on the place isn’t helping Y/N’s situation either. 

“All kitchen appliances are included at no extra price… and just through here is the office, which could be turned into a small third bedroom, or in your case, an art studio.” Jenna tries to sell the place the best she can, clinging onto the little information Ethan gave her about the client. 

If she’s honest, she needs to sell this place — she needs a new resident and to finally take this place off the market. Jenna leads them through to the master bedroom and en suite, not missing the way Y/N gawks at the walk in shower and marble bathtub. She shows them the large walk-in closet, the main bathroom just outside the master bedroom. 

Then she takes them out to the terrace, allows Y/N and Rachel to get a feel of the London view. It all seems too good to be true to Y/N, and she’s just waiting for the other ball to drop. Maybe that’s why her mother hasn’t said anything. She doesn’t want to get their hopes up for her daughter not to be able to afford it. 

“What do you ladies think so far? It’s in the heart of London, reserved parking space, front desk security. Public transport a mere few minutes walk from here, too.” 

She waits a moment, and Rachel is the first to break the silence. She holds Y/N to her side, breathing in the view. “It’s breathtaking, I love it.” She finally speaks, though Y/N isn’t sure if the weight from her shoulders is lifted, or more is piled on top. 

“And how much did you say this place was again?” Rachel asks her, knowing full well Jenna is yet to disclose that. Y/N can feel her throat growing dry. She squeezes her mothers arm, prepared for the worst. 

“Five-hundred and fifty, per calendar month to rent, and an upfront deposit of two-thousand.” 

Y/N blinks, throat constricting as her eyes widen. _Sorry… what?_

Rachel shrieks a little, taking Y/N’s hands in hers. “Oh, babe, you have to! It's within budget, it's gorgeous, and I know it’s a little further from home than the others, but you’re not gonna find another deal like this,” Rachel tries to convince her daughter, though she really has no need to, the view is selling itself.

Nonetheless, she is right. The apartment is absolutely perfect, close to work and just an hour from home. It has all the space Y/N needs and more, a spare room for when the family want to visit. And it's cheap, _too_ cheap.

"Why is the price so low? I figure a flat this size and with this view would be a little more on the expensive side," she ponders, watching as Jenna begins shuffling her feet against the concrete and her sudden expressionless face twists to one of slight discomfort and fear.

She guides them back inside, into the living room area where Rachel thinks she’ll buy Y/N a nice, plush rug for. Jenna clears her throat once more, a nervous habit so Y/N has come to notice.

"The last occupant died, right where you're standing.”

Y/N's eyes widen, and Rachel holds her hand to her chest in shock. “Died? That's awful, how? What happened?" Rachel asks, taking a step away from where Jenna had pointed and looking toward her daughter with slight horror in her eyes. 

Ah, so _that’s_ the catch. 

Jenna scratches the back of her neck. "The tenant was all kinds of trouble, in with the wrong crowds and eventually it caught up to him. We've had trouble selling since, so that's why the price is so good," she explains.

_So he didn’t just_ **_die_ ** _in that spot. He was killed._

Y/N frowns, looking down at the ground and she wonders just how much trouble this guy could have been in to have ended up dead in his own home. She isn't sure how she feels about the new information, all she knows is that she's fallen in love with the flat, and she'll be damned if she doesn't take it.

"Is there anything else I should know?" Y/N asks, her arm how wrapping around Rachel’s waist and she gently squeezes her side. Jenna sighs through a small smile, relieved that she might have just found a new tenant.

She nods, though. "It's full disclosure that I tell you the owner of this building isn't exactly considered a model citizen. He is known for conducting a lot of his business here," she begins, “I mean, in the lower levels of the building. Many of his associates also occupy some of the complexes that are a few floors above us.”

Y/N furrows her brows, tilting her head. "What kind of business? Who is he?" 

She wonders why that would be such a big deal, how that could even affect any of the tenants of this place. Many landlords conduct business in the confinements of their apartment buildings, especially ones to this size. Jenna swallows the lump in her throat. 

"Tom Holland."

Rachel squeezes Y/N's arm at the mention of his name, though all Y/N can do is scrunch her face up in confusion. Who the fuck is Tom Holland? She doesn't know and she doesn't care. How will his business affect her living? It won't.

"I'll take it."

//

  



	2. Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N runs into the wrong crowd in the laundry room, and she’s fairly certain she’s doomed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one, revisited! There is literally an extra few thousand words that have been added to this, and almost the entire thing has been rewritten wow okay. Here you go, new and improved! 

Y/N never truly prepared herself for the stress and aggravation of moving away from home. Sure, she boxed up her belongings in an orderly and precise manner, labelling each with the correct room and splitting them into said spaces right away. But she’s found it a little more difficult than first anticipated. 

For example, Y/N didn’t think about finding space for everything to fit perfectly. For the most part, Y/N didn’t have to bring much furniture with her. Both bedrooms were decorated with new and gorgeous beds and nightstands, and the little office with a mahogany oak desk she thinks she might be selling in the next few days. 

Her room is mostly untouched back home, aside from the belongings she has a close attachment to. Y/N had decided she was going to get everything new, or thrifted, and make a real fresh start for herself. But the plates she got are too big for the cupboard beside the stove, so she’s had to move them to the one beside the fridge that originally had tins and canned goods. 

She had a vision, and the little things are throwing her off. 

Eyeing the kitchen once more, she decides she needs a break. It’s nearly two in the afternoon and she’s been unloading and unpacking since seven this morning. Olivia had come to help, their Mum working a double shift at the hospital, but as most seventeen-year-old girls, Liv has been glued to her phone, only unpacking two boxes in the four hour period she’s been there. 

With her hands on her hips, Y/N blows stray hairs from her face, and lets her shoulders slump. “And... we're done!" 

Olivia sighs out a puff of relief, folding down what appears to be the final brown box, and shoving it into the rest of the pile. Y/N scoffs at her, slippered feet carrying her to the living room where she plops down on the new sofa. She relaxes into the cushions, eyes closing for a moment. 

“I don’t know what you’re huffing for. You didn't fucking do anything.” 

Olivia rolls her eyes at the harsh scold that slips past her sisters lips and joins her on the sofa; legs kicked up and tucked under her bum as she gets comfy. She looks over the flat, still a little sparse, but she knows Y/N will have it well lived-in within the next few days. 

Her eyes fall on the wall opposite them. The very _blank_ wall. “Just need a TV.”

Y/N blinks. “Getting a TV is the last of my worries right now. Need to get some food in the fridge and some fucking curtains.” 

They’re not to hide the view — she _never_ wants to hide the view, but they are to hide _her_ from uninvited eyes. She’s heard all sorts of stories about how creeps watch women through their windows, stalk them, kill them. It’s always the women that live alone. She isn’t about to be some weirdos next obsession. 

Her mother calls her cautious. Olivia calls her paranoid. Y/N knows she’s both. 

Olivia hums. One hand rests on her stomach, tapping a small beat, the other tangled in her hair — twirling the pink streaks that are starting to fade. Y/N observes her for a moment. 

They’re nothing alike. Both personality wise and looks. Olivia has an edge to her. She’s reckless and sassy, daring and exciting. She leaps at the chance of anything, thrives for chaos and change. Nothing phases her much. She’s smart, charismatic. The seventeen-year-old just doesn’t much have her priorities in order. But what teenager does?

Olivia is a good student, a good daughter. She’s all about her friends, though. Boys, booze and bad decisions. Y/N thinks she’s only ever as brave and careless as Olivia when she’s had a few drinks. The oldest sister tends to enjoy house parties over clubs, painting over socialising, daydreaming over living. 

Y/N is what her grandmother used to call _an old soul._ She’s always been ‘ahead of her time,’ knew how to knit by the age of seven. Olivia loses herself in the thrill of excitement and the here and now. Y/N loses herself in books and the ideas of what could be. 

She’s not boring, and she’s not always a serious person. Y/N is easily the biggest klutz anyone could meet. But she’s also the most compassionate and understanding, the most trusting and funny. She’s a beaming light in tunnels of seemingly never-ending darkness. She’s just lonely. 

In Y/N’s defence, it’s not entirely her fault. She has friends, but most are more acquaintances than they are anything else. She doesn’t see a problem with that. Y/N much prefers her own company, and she never surrounded herself with exciting and crazy people in the first place. 

Her sister gives her a taste of what she’s missing, and Y/N is always left in inner turmoil, unsure if she wants more from her life, or if she’s happy being just the way she is. She likes to think she’d welcome a bit of chaos into her life — welcome it, _not control it._

But then again, she’s a simple girl with a simple life — it’s hard for her to imagine anything less than normalcy to make an abrupt appearance into her schedule. Though, her boyfriend is about as chaotic as she’s ever had. No, not chaotic. What’s the word? Oh, yeah, _toxic_. 

“Why don’t we go get something to eat, and then get shopping on the way back? I really want to go to Urban at some point today, they’ve got a sale on.” 

Olivia doesn’t look up from her screen as she speaks, Y/N’s eyes still glued to her feet sinking into the rug below her. She hums, not paying much attention at what she’s agreeing to. What does bring her attention back to the present, is the vibration of her phone in her back pocket.

Pulling it out, Y/N sighs at the text that reads on her screen. 

**Lewis <3  
** _Not gonna make it tonight. Sorry babe x_

Y/N locks her phone, doesn’t bother opening it — there’s no point. Just like there’s no point in her asking why. 

//

The door unlocks with a soft _click_ and a subtle creak. Tom waits a moment, ears straining for the smallest of possible movements on the other side of the wood. Hearing nothing, he pushes the door open with the tips of his fingers, and steps inside. 

His Oxford shoes' small heels clunk against the wooden floorboards with every clear step he takes into the hall. He catches sight of himself in the mirror that hangs just beside the door to the guest bedroom. With one hand cradling a welcome basket of baked goods, he uses his free hand to adjust his slim black tie before tugging his suit blazer.

A smirk graces its way upon his thin lips, eyes bright and gleaming. The footsteps of his Consigliere stop abruptly behind him, a soft exhale of breath following. “Stop ogling at yourself and get this over with, will you? They’ve got Damian at the penthouse.”

Tom peers over his shoulder, catching the icy eyes of a very disinterested Harrison Osterfield. Hair styled back, crisp black suit, deadly fucking face. There’s not a single Made Man better than Harrison, not a single person Tom would ever have by his side instead. 

He listens to his right-hand man and wanders further into the flat. The welcome basket gets placed upon the kitchen counter as his eyes survey the area. It’s adequate, he supposes. Not exactly the mobster's type, but he isn’t opposed to it. Tom much prefers thing clean and sharp — black and white. This is all too different. Earthy tones and splashes of vibrant colours. He thinks the orange sofa is obnoxious enough. 

There’s still a chaotic mess of bubble wrap and newspaper across the expanse of the oak coffee table, and a painting easel is left leaning against the hall that leads to the master bedroom. His lip twitches at that. 

“Taste is a bit loud, is it not?” Harrison comments from a few feet away, picking up a gold iron fruit basket that sits in the centre of the dining table. 

Tom hums, eyes squinting. “Design is expressive, Haz. That’s why you have an interior.”

He doesn’t pay much attention to Tom’s remark, instead placing the bowl back to the table and opening the door that leads out to the terrace. He’s right, though. Loud taste for a woman so quiet. Tom’s done his research. He always does when a new tenant moves in. 

Y/N Wyatt; a twenty-two-year-old statistical analyst at Sanderson LTD. Described as a quiet girl, she’s never had any run-ins with the law, held the same job for the past three years, and left school at the top of her classes. She’s a painter, frequents monuments and museums often enough, and while she’s quite beautiful, she’s the exact opposite of Tom’s type. 

Tom takes a brief look around as Harrison takes a look outside, as if he’s never seen the view before. Wandering around the room, he picks up little trinkets along the way to the fireplace. A black photo frame catches his eye, curiosity getting the better of him. As he approaches it, his eyes squint.

Y/N stands with a cheesy smile and a tilt in her head, adored in a gorgeous beige dress as she holds a glass of champagne in one hand, her other arm wrapped around the middle of her younger sister. Yes, Tom’s looked into Olivia, too. Her police reports had quirked his brow slightly. 

Tom blinks at the photo, eyes straining to inspect the background. They’re outside, a string of lights and trees distorted behind them. He can tell by the dresses that the photo is from a wedding. He thinks back for a second, wonders if it may have been hers. No, Tom would remember if she was married. 

"She's clean, you know? You don't have to go snooping," Harrison ponders aloud, now sat back on the sofa with one leg resting over his knee. 

Tom doesn’t make a noise, doesn’t really acknowledge what he says. He thinks Y/N could quite easily be Harrison’s type. She’s a nice girl — that’s the sort he always goes for. The ones he could easily make a wife out of. Though, Tom can’t deny the more he looks, the more he’s enthralled. Even if she isn’t his type. 

Edgy, sexy, reckless. That’s what Tom goes for. A good time, not a long time. 

"She does have good taste, though, I'll give her that," Harrison mutters out again after a brief pause of silence. He’s nodding to himself, eyes admiring the decor upon surfaces. He’s quite amazed how well she’s coordinated the place with such clashing colours. 

Tom hums, head tilting. "Doesn't have a TV, though," Harrison adds. 

"I'll see to it," Tom mumbles to himself. 

He places the frame back on the fireplace, rubbing the tips of his fingers against his thumb, the other hand stuffed into his pocket. As much as Tom would like to sit around all day, and catch a glimpse of Y/N in person, he has business to attend to. 

Turning to his friend, Harrison’s arms are outstretched on the back of the sofa, legs spread wide as he gnaws on his inner cheek, staring out at the view. A flash of familiarity glides past Tom’s eyes in a quick wave — gone in a blink. He tuts. 

“You sat exactly like that when we found Ricky.” 

Harrison’s jaw ticks, eyes falling to the space between them — the space they soaked and bleached, and is now covered by a large rug. He looks up at his boss, scoffing out a laugh. “And you were standing right there. Though, back then, you had a cigar hanging from your lip.” 

A smirk rolls at the corner of Tom’s mouth as he pulls his hand out of his pocket, an unlit cigar pinched between his fingers. “Fucking unbelievable.” 

//

If Y/N had known that she’d be out for five hours, she would have said fuck it, and waited to get shopping in the morning. Olivia had dragged her into every shop she set her eye on, and Y/N is thoroughly exhausted — and when Y/N is exhausted, she’s a little more irritable than usual. 

It’s now, that she stands in the elevator with six bags hanging off her fingers that she realises something familiar about Olivia’s outfit. Maybe it’s because she’s only just let herself think about something other than the flat, that she recognises they’re _her_ jeans that Olivia is wearing. 

"Hey,” she calls from beside her. “Those are mine! I’ve been looking for them for weeks!” Y/N kicks a foot out to smack at the back of her sisters calf, but Olivia is too quick and jumps forward before she can make contact with her leg. 

The younger sibling shrugs. “They fit me better.”

Y/N scoffs, a roll of her eyes shortly following. “Fuck off do they fit you better. We’re the same size.”

The elevator opens before they can bicker anymore, and Y/N and Olivia are met with two tall figures standing before them. Dressed in suits and stoic expressions, Y/N clears her throat when they move aside to let them out. She doesn’t let her eyes meet their faces, but Olivia looks a little too long at the blond with the dazzling blue eyes, and Y/N almost crashes into her. 

Olivia looks over her shoulder as she walks, a giggle sounding from her lips when she realises the blond is looking at her, and the brunet at her sister. “ _He_ thinks they fit me better.”

Y/N looks back, eyes squinted when she catches sight of the smirk on his lips. Her eyes flitter to the man beside him — not a shadow of emotion on his features. 

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, you’ve got impeccable timing.” Harrison’s hands fold in front of him, eyes stuck on the flurry of pink hair that moves further away from him with every step. 

Tom hums, reaching to press the button for the sixth floor. “She’s seventeen, don’t even think about it,” Tom warns.

Harrison smirks. “What about the sister then?”

Y/N turns back to the elevator just as the doors close, and lets out a breath as they reach her door. Fiddling through her purse for her key, Olivia peers over Y/N’s shoulder and lets out a yawn as she waits. “Have you spoken to Dad recently? I texted him the other day but haven’t really had a reply.” 

Y/N knows Olivia isn’t talking about her own father. Not the messy alcoholic that’s already been arrested twice this year alone on drug charges and public indecency. No. She means Y/N’s father, Adam. The loving, geographic journalist that gets to travel the world for a living. Despite not being Olivia’s biological father, and having been divorced from their mother for years before, he raised the teenager alongside Rachel because Martin never did. 

Y/N hums, an aggravated sigh slipping past her lips and she drops into a squat, her purse on the floor as she rummages through for her key. “Yeah, I spoke to him last night. He comes back from Australia next week, he said something about going out for lunch.” 

A grin grows on Olivia’s lips, and Y/N finally finds her keys. “We should get Mum to come this time, she’s proper missing him, I can tell.” 

A scoffed laugh sounds from the back of Y/N’s throat as she unlocks the front door. “Can’t imagine Martin would be too pleased with that.” She retorts. 

Olivia can’t help the annoyance and disgust that bubbles in her blood at the mention of her father — of that piece of scum. “Martin is a cunt. No one cares about him or his slimy opinion. Wish Mum would just pie him off already. Don’t know why she bothers staying with that freak.” 

Y/N can’t say much back because Olivia’s taken the words right out of her mouth. 

Bags in hand, the sisters make their way into the flat, Y/N kicking the door closed behind her. Olivia piles the groceries onto the counter, sauntering over to the sofa with aching feet, and sighing in relief when she lets them rest, eyes fluttered closed. 

Y/N pays no attention to her as she begins to unpack the shopping, and it’s only now that she feels like a _real_ adult. It only just hits her that she’s moved out of her childhood home, and is now completely independent. The realisation of it all tugs a little smile on the corners of her lips. 

It’s _her_ flat. Just _hers._

Her attention is pulled away from the groceries by the harsh gasp of Olivia seething, “What the fuck?” The confusion in her tone has Y/N rushing to her side, but her own eyes widen in refection of Olivia when she sees what she’s gawking at. 

“What the fuck…”

An impressive sixty-inch flatscreen hangs on her wall. A flatscreen she most certainly did _not_ buy nor recognise. There’s an extravagant red bow across the top left corner with a folded piece of golden card poking out of the side. With hasty steps, Y/N approaches the TV and picks the note from the bow. It’s handwritten in scrawled calligraphy, reading:

_Y/N,  
_ _A housewarming gift to you. And the basket.  
_ _Tom._

Her eyes flitter down from the note to the basket full of muffins and jams just by her feet. Olives picks it up, snatching the note from Y/N’s fingers and reading the messy words with squinted eyes. 

A sudden discomfort lodges its way in Y/N’s throat. She was warned that he would be doing business here, and yet she thought nothing of it. She didn’t think she’d ever come into contact with him, and here she is, coming home to find _he’s_ been in her flat, without her permission, without her knowledge. 

A chill runs from the crook of her neck to the bottom of her spine. 

“Who the fuck is Tom? What happened to Lewis?” Olivia frowns. “Not that I care, he’s a knob anyway,” she adds in a breathless whisper, 

Y/N clears her throat, shaking her head as she sinks into the sofa, nimble fingers picking at the dry skin of her lip. “No,” she croaks. “Tom is uh… he’s my landlord.” 

Olivia notices the way her sister’s skin dulls, and she’s just as uncomfortable as she is. “Did you know he was buying you a TV?” She asks. 

Y/N shakes her head. “I’ve never spoken to him, Liv. He’s got a bloody key to the flat, and let himself in while I wasn’t home,” she stresses.

Y/N’s got her head in her hands as Olivia takes a seat beside her, note discarded on the coffee table as she offers the best and only kind of support she can. “Don’t stress yourself, he probably has a key to everyone’s flat. Not that it makes you feel any better, but maybe he does this for all his tenants? Also, you have a chain and a bolt from the inside, there’s no way anyone can get in without you hearing the struggle.” 

The truth of her words doesn’t do much to soothe Y/N’s worrying, despite how well-intended they are. She runs her sweaty palms down the thighs of her jeans. “Like, yeah, it’s fucking weird and creepy, but I don’t think you actually have anything to worry about,” Olivia continues. “My guess is he’s just some lonely old man or something.”

Y/N hums at that, forces herself to stop thinking too much into it. Olivia is right, it’s probably just some old man with more money than sense. 

She stands, doesn’t bother to take a look at the welcome basket, and instead continues to put the food away and grabs two glasses and a bottle of wine. 

Olivia sits at the kitchen island while Y/N pours, offering a glass and taking a large gulp from her own. She peers at Olivia over the rim of her wine, eyes hard. “Don’t tell Mum,” she threatens. 

Olivia raises a brow and takes a sip of her own drink. “Have I ever?” 

A moment of silence falls between them as they drink. Y/N feels on edge and wonders how she’s supposed to process her landlord's idea of welcoming himself in her home and purchasing her a TV without her knowledge. For a moment, she wonders if she’ll be charged the expense of it on top of next months rent. No, surely not. He said it was a gift. 

"Have you decided what you're gonna do with the office room?" Olivia speaks up.

Y/N has thought about it, briefly. The idea crossed her mind when she first viewed the flat of turning it into a little home studio — somewhere for her to paint and draw and write. A designated space with a jaw dropping view. Maybe she’ll be a little more inspired, produce a few decent pieces she might be able to sell for a bob or two. 

She shrugs her shoulders. "I'm actually thinking of turning it into a little art studio. Now I've moved out, I have room for it," she theorises aloud. Y/N knows her sister will always encourage her artistic tendencies, so it’s no surprise when Olivia begins to nod her head in frantic agreement. 

“Should we order dinner in? Our usual? You got lunch, so it’s my treat.” Olivia suggests, a coy smile on her lips as she knows Y/N can never seem to refuse free food. She’s already tapping away at the screen of her phone before Y/N can speak a reply, and then she’s sitting it down and crossing her hands on the counter. 

“It’s ordered. Be about 45 minutes. Can I run a bath while we wait?”

Y/N nods, finishing off her wine. “Yeah, use my bathroom if you want, the bath’s bigger. I might pop down to the laundrette’s downstairs. I wanna wash my new blankets before I use them.” 

Olivia hums as she makes her way to the guest bedroom, rummaging through her bag to pull out her toothbrush and some pyjamas. “Have you got any shampoo and that?” She calls out as she wanders past Y/N and in the direction of her room. 

“Yeah, it’s all under the sink. Throw your clothes out for me so I can take them down and wash them too.” 

Y/N reaches for her keys and her phone, shoving them into her back pocket and throwing the blankets from the end of the sofa into the laundry basket she’d left on the dining table. She hears Olivia throw her clothes to the floor of her room and close the bathroom door behind her. 

“I’ll take my keys and my phone. Be about an hour.”

She picks up the clothes and shoves them into the basket, hearing the muffled shouts of her sister as she leaves the flat. Y/N figures doing the washing late in the evening will save her the trouble of fighting for a machine and socialising with her new neighbours; both of which she is far too tired to do.

Within a few minutes, she’s made her way to the basement level — surrounded by the spinning hums of washing machines, and the thumps of warm tumble dryers. A soft hum is sounding past her lips as she follows the fluorescent signs toward the laundry area. 

The basement is broken up into many halls and rooms. She strains her eyes trying to look right the way down in the swarming darkness of it. She wonders what else would be down here — the gym has a whole floor of its own — she can’t imagine a laundrette taking up the entirety of the basement. 

With the basket in her hands, Y/N uses the side of her body to push the door open to the laundry room. The sounds get louder as she makes her way inside — but the second she does, another sound greets her ears, and she freezes in her tracks. 

Her eyes are wide at the sight before her. A man sits tied to a wooden chair in the centre of the room; whimpering and crying. Almost every machine is on to drown out his pleads and begs, and Y/N freaks. The basket falls to the floor, but the noise of it is drowned out by what she’s walked into. 

The hostage is surrounded by several looming men all dressed in suits, most with dark hair, and all with deathly glints in their eyes. Y/N swallows dryly, stumbling back a couple of steps as they turn to her. Many reach for their hips, and she doesn’t need to stick around to know they’re reaching for a weapon.

“Shit — sorry…” she trails off, stumbling over her feet and rolling her ankles. 

Y/N pushes back against the door and clambers out of the room. Her blankets are forgotten about; her hands tangled in her hair as she races for the elevator. Her fingers are trembling against the buttons as she presses for her floor — her breathing staggered as she tries to keep her panic at bay. 

She doesn’t know what to do. The weight of her phone sits heavy in her back pocket, but she doesn’t think to ring the police. No. She thinks she’ll race to her apartment, and put a chair against the door. She thinks she’ll phone Lewis and tell him he needs to come over.

She has one thing to her advantage — they don’t know what apartment is hers, and if she can get inside before they see her, she will be safe. _She has to be safe._

Throwing glances over her shoulder as she races down the hall, Y/N fumbles with her keys as she struggles to unlock the door. Her hands are trembling, feet scurrying as she pushes her way into the flat. She slams the door quickly, twisting the lock and sliding across the bolt and chain. 

In the haste of her panic, she checks all of the windows, desperately closing and locking any open like she’s completely forgotten she’s on the twelfth floor. She’s calling out shakily for her sister, repeatedly knocking on her bathroom door before barging in.

Olivia’s head emerges from underwater, rinsing the conditioner from her hair when she notices the raw panic and fear on Y/N’s face. She sits upright, the bubbles barely covering her body as the water sloshes around the tub. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” 

Y/N’s lips open like a babbling fish out of water when a frantic pounding on the front door can be heard throughout the flat. Her head snaps to the door, eyes wide as they begin to brim with tears. Her heart skips a beat, and then another. She thinks she’s about to go straight into cardiac arrest, and Olivia is worried for her sister. 

A tear slips past her eyes and Olivia attempts to rush out of the bath. Y/N shakes her head, hands her a towel and puts her finger to her lips. 

“Stay in here, and be quiet. If I scream, or if I’m not back in 60 seconds, call the police. Don’t ask, just do it.” 

She hands Olivia her phone, gnawing on the tips of her fingers as she leaves the bathroom. She hears Olivia lock the door, still too in shock to ask anything, but she listens and does as her sister says.

On shaking knees, Y/N wanders closer to the door. She’s cautious with her steps, fingers plucking the biggest knife she owns from the knife block, and she braces it in her hold; a tight and unwavering grip. The knocking continues, softer this time as she stops on the other side of it. 

She holds her breath, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Y/N leans her head closer, straining her ears for any sound of movement in order to try and gauge how many people might be outside. Then she hears it — the voice.

"I know you're on the other side of the door, darling.”

The gruff silkiness of his tone doesn’t do anything to ease her panic. Instead, it has her raising the knife higher into the air in anticipation. She supposes she could just wait it out — phone the police and wait until they come. But there’s something in her better judgement that is stopping her from doing so. There’s a feeling, an unpleasant one. A feeling that suggests there’s another way out. That she’s not in the kind of danger she thinks she is. 

With the knife still raised, she lets those thoughts bring her closer to the door, and one by one, she removes the locks. She knows he can hear it on the other side, and the adrenaline courses through her blood. She’s on high alert. She’s the one with the knife. But he could have a gun and be twice the size she is. 

Swallowing her breath, she grips the doorknob and twists. The door cracks open, and she’s given the slither of a view at the unwanted guest where she squints an eye. 

Y/N recognises him immediately to be one of the two men in the elevator from just an hour ago, but he lacks his friend. Still dressed in the same slick black suit, his hair is a little more dishevelled this time, and he looks tired. When his hazel eyes meet hers, Y/N’s blood runs cold.

The knife is hidden behind the door as she clears her throat, tightening her grip. “Can I help you?” She asks. 

He cocks a brow. “Mind opening the door, love? It’s a little chilly out here.” 

His voice holds amusement as he regards the girl. He isn’t silly, and she knows that. But Y/N thinks she’s got the advantage because he doesn’t know she’s got a weapon just as he most likely has. 

She shakes her head. “Sorry, it’s late and I don’t know who you are.” 

He nods with a hum, hands stuffed into the pockets of his straight-leg trousers. “Then perhaps I should introduce myself? Tom. Tom Holland… I’m sure you know the name.” 

Y/N blinks — once, twice. _Her landlord?_ She quickly closes the door and slides the chain completely off. She’s quick in her movements to open it again and grab hold of his hand. But it isn’t until she pulls him into her home and locks the door shut again that she realises how stupid her actins could have just been.

Tom notices the knife first, and Y/N quickly lowers her fist. She puts it back in the wooden block and lets out a breath she’s been holding. When she looks at him again, doubt starts to set in. How does she know he’s really her landlord? Surely it’s a little too coincidental for him to be pounding at her door right after she witnesses what she did. 

The panicked calls from Olivia shrill through Y/N’s ears, and she rushes on her feet toward the bedroom, unaware that Tom is watching from the other end of the room. 

“Y/N what’s going on?” She shouts out through a whispered tone, wrapped tight in a fluffy towel. Her eyes peer over Y/N’s shoulder as she approaches her and a frown deepens on her face. 

“Everything’s okay, don’t worry. Just go to bed, I need to talk to my landlord. Stay in my room tonight.” Y/N explains, both her hands on Olivia’s shoulders to try to get the girls full attention. 

She looks back to Y/N with an incredulous stare. “ _He’s_ the landlord?!”

Y/N spins her and pushes her back into the bedroom with a deep sigh. When she turns back to Tom, he’s already watching her. He notices the hesitancy in the way she approaches him again — how her body language changes from being relieved to being on-guard again. 

He frowns at the fact.

“Sorry for such a late visit. Thought it would be wise for me to drop by and introduce myself. Also, just to advise you it’s probably best not to go lower than the ground floor after 21:00.”

There’s a warning in his tone, but it’s not threatening, Y/N finds. She nods, doesn’t mention anything that she saw. She supposes there’s no need to. He knows what’s going on down there. _Business._ He probably partakes in whatever bullshit that is. 

Y/N wants nothing to do with it. She feels more than a little uneasy to know her landlord is part of something so illegal, but she can’t say she’ll be phoning the police to report it. She’ll keep her mouth shut if that keeps her out of anything going on. 

But there’s one thing playing on her mind that she needs to ask — possible consequences be damned. She’ll have him know she isn’t someone to be toyed with. 

“How did you get in here earlier, and why did you give me a TV?” Her tone is short and snippy; straight to the point, and Tom thinks it t be a breath of fresh air, someone speaking to him without fear. It’s quite amusing if he’s honest. 

She watches him with sceptical eyes as Tom takes a seat at the centre island. He folds his hands together on the counter and leans forward slightly. In the warm hues of the overhead lights, Y/N gets a glance at how smooth and golden his skin looks, how the light reflects in the hazel ocean of his eyes. 

She clears her throat, recomposing herself.

Tom lets a smirk tear at the corners of his lips. “I have keys to all of my tenants in case of emergencies. I knocked earlier to give you the welcome basket, but you weren’t home, so I let myself in. As for the TV, like I said, a housewarming gift.” 

Y/N’s blood is back to boiling beneath her skin as he speaks. She wants to wipe the smugness off his face, and the nonchalance of his tone has her struggling to bite back a scoff.

She shakes her head. “That’s not okay. You can’t just wander into people’s flats whenever you feel like it, or buy them huge TV’s. So, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use that key again.” 

His smirk only grows at how heated she’s getting over the fact. He’d never use the key for anything other than an emergency, but he entertains her anyway and holds his hands up in a form of surrender. “Of course, love.” 

Y/N nods once, allowing herself to take a deep breath as she stares at him. She doesn’t feel uncomfortable under his gaze, and she doesn’t fee lesser than him — despite his obnoxiously pricey suit and insanely charming good looks. She feels level with him. 

Tom clears his throat, standing with a forced smile. “Right, well now that that’s cleared up, I don’t think we’ll be having any more problems.” He concludes with a sharp look, one that Y/N really doesn’t want to argue with. 

She will go to bed tonight, confused, and wondering what is going on — but for the most part, she knows it’s best she knows absolutely nothing. She’s happy to live oblivious to what goes on in the basement of her apartment complex if that means she doesn’t get any trouble. 

Y/N nods, nonetheless, and her mind is brought back to when she viewed the flat. When Jenna had told her Tom likes to conduct a lot of his _business_ here. She thinks she has an idea, but really, she’s clueless. 

She sees him to the door, a chill running down her spine as he turns back to her. Tom notices the discomfort in her aura, how she curls a little into herself, so he finds himself leaning a little closer to her. 

“You won’t have any trouble from them, or anyone, for that matter.” He watches her nod, how her shoulders relax at his friendly tone and words of reassurance. 

As he walks away, Y/N finds herself believing his words, and sinking into a state of exhaustion. She bolts and locks the door, leaving the lights on as she makes her way sluggishly to her bedroom; still in some state of shock. 

When she opens the door, Olivia is dressed and pacing the room with her thumb between her teeth, and arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes bug out of her head at the sight of her sister and she stills — halts all movement. 

“You have some fucking explaining to do. Do you have any idea who that is?” 

There’s a venom in her tone that Y/N hasn’t heard in a long time, and it takes her back. A frown wedges its way between her eyebrows. There’s fear in her eyes, like she knows something Y/N doesn’t. She looks at her, quizzically. 

“Tom Holland; my landlord,” she iterates. 

Olivia shakes her head, a bitter laugh sounding past her lips. She takes a step closer, and for a moment, Y/N feels the fear and disbelief that swims in her little sister's eyes.

“More like Tom Holland; King of the fucking Mob.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah okay, so this is a lot longer than it originally was, but i love it so much and i hope you guys do too! i hope you’re all okay and staying safe, and thank you so much for being so patient with me rewriting this series!

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, okay so the prologue is done and updated! So excited to revamp this series I cannot express how much I love this fic! Also, above are the blueprints of the flat the reader moves into. I also crossed out where the laundry room was as it’s detrimental she doesn’t have one lmao. Also, the bedroom beside the master bedroom will be her little art studio!


End file.
